


Respite

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Genji is a Little Shit, M/M, Mild Angst, So Is Hana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 20:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15396717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: He freezes for a moment before he finally hazards a look down. Hanzo has apparently nodded off, lulled into a doze by a sake with a frankly alarming alcohol percentage, and managed to tip into McCree before he could fall over.Honestly? Not the first time someone’s done this to him.It is the first time that McCree hesitates, though.--Five times Hanzo falls asleep on McCree by accident, and one time it's on purpose.





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> "This will just be a silly joke," I said 5700 words ago.

**I.**

 

The first time it happens, it doesn’t strike McCree as particularly odd.

Hanzo’s clearly had a shit night and he’s most of a bottle of _sake_ deep before McCree found him up on the skybridge: well past any sort of _fun, silly_ drunk and well into _angry, self-loathing_ drunk, though there was a good chance he’d started out there in the first place. McCree knows him well enough now to know some of Hanzo’s demons and to have shared a few of his own, including their shared penchant for drowning problems in alcohol instead of handling them properly.

It only takes another half-hour, during which McCree treats himself to a couple shots of whiskey from his flask, before Hanzo’s bitter muttering ceases and they lapse into a companionable, if slightly tense, silence. McCree’s fumbling for his lighter and a cigarillo when a warm, hard weight thumps gently against his shoulder, and he suddenly has a mouthful of Hanzo’s spiky ponytail.

He freezes for a moment before he finally hazards a look down. Hanzo has apparently nodded off, lulled into a doze by a _sake_ with a frankly alarming alcohol percentage, and managed to tip into McCree before he could fall over.

Honestly? Not the first time someone’s done this to him.

It is the first time that McCree hesitates, though. It’s an odd angle, but even from here, he can see the way Hanzo’s usually furrowed brow has relaxed in slumber, the downturn of his lips now less severe. It’s almost sweet, seeing him so calm and relaxed in McCree’s company in a way he usually isn’t with anyone.

But it’s starting to get cold, and McCree’s ass is going numb from the steel bridge underneath, and there’s a distinct possibility that if he doesn’t wake Hanzo up and instead lets him sleep until he wakes on his own, McCree’s going to get stabbed.

“Hey,” he says, jerking his shoulder. “C’mon partner. No place to be fallin’ asleep.”

Hanzo blinks back to wakefulness quickly, and seems startled when he realizes where he is. After spending a few seconds orienting himself, he quietly collects his empty _sake_ bottle and departs without another word--or so much as an apology.

McCree has his smoke and doesn’t think much of it. It’s a lot colder without Hanzo beside him, though, and he feels a little off-balance when he goes to stand and take himself inside, like a weight is missing from his side.

He goes to bed and has forgotten about it by the time his head hits the pillow.

 

**II.**

 

It happens again about a month later.

It’s a late night, and this time it’s Hanzo who stumbles upon McCree drinking alone, sitting in the rec room with an old Western playing on the screen. McCree glances up from his seat sprawled across the length of the couch. Hanzo hesitates in the doorway. He’s dressed down in a soft cotton t-shirt and loose pants, his hair tied low at the nape of his neck and tousled with either sleep or agitation.

McCree bites the bullet and sits up, reversing his sprawl to free up some room. “Care to join?” he asks, and offers up the bottle of Jack in his hand.

“Please,” Hanzo replies, visibly relieved, and crosses the room to sit beside him.

They drink together, passing the bottle between them. Hanzo comments derisively on the movie, and laughs whenever McCree counters or offers a bit of trivia about the film. It’s comfortable and lighthearted, and between the shit whiskey but good company, McCree’s mostly forgotten about whatever nightmares kept him up tonight.

He thinks to ask what has Hanzo up so late, but a glance at Hanzo’s content smile makes him rethink it. No point in ruining a rare good mood by dragging things into the light that don’t need to be--better to let them stay in the shadows and pretend they’re still hidden.

The movie ends. McCree slouches further into his seat and reaches for the remote. It’s then that he realizes his right arm is pinned under a warm, heavy weight.

Hanzo's asleep again. Not surprising, given the hour and the alcohol, but it is surprising to once again be treated as Hanzo's personal pillow. He’s managed to make himself cozier this time, too, supported equally by the back of the couch and McCree’s flannel-clad bicep.

“Hanzo,” McCree says. Hanzo doesn’t react. He looks so peaceful in his sleep that McCree can’t bear to try any harder to wake him up. The man gets about as much sleep as McCree does, which is to say very little, and McCree’s not going to be the one to take away what few winks he is getting.

And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t kind of cute. It’s not just that Hanzo looks more relaxed, McCree realizes--he looks younger this way, without the deep lines around his eyes and mouth carved by the permanent states of self-loathing and bitterness.

McCree manages to contort himself enough to reach the remote with his other hand, flips over to a late-night news station, and resigns himself to his fate.

A few minutes later, he is startled out of his drowsy haze by Genji saying, “Did my brother trap you there?”

McCree glances over to the doorway where Genji leans against the frame. Genji nods toward Hanzo, who sleeps through the conversation. “He used to do that to me, when we were younger,” he says. “I never understood why. It isn’t like he could not hold his liquor. I think he just never sleeps.”

“Yeah, I get that vibe too.”

“Would you like me to wake him up?”

McCree can hear the mischievous grin underneath the mask. His arm’s starting to tingle from the weight of Hanzo on top of it, but McCree still shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“. . . You are fine with Hanzo sleeping on you all night.”

“Stop judgin’ me.”

Genji holds up his hands. “I am not judging anyone.”

“Yes you are. That’s your judgey face.”

“I am wearing a _mask._ "

“Just--” McCree bites off a sigh, rubs his eyes with his free hand, and looks again at Hanzo peacefully-sleeping countenance. “Just let ‘im be. He need the rest, and I’m sure he’ll wake himself up in a few when he has to piss or somethin’.”

Doubtfulness radiates off of Genji’s entire being, but mercifully, he does not say anything else. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose I should be questioning your motives with my brother, but I think I would rather get some sleep. In an actual bed.”

McCree sneers halfheartedly at him. Genji laughs as he departs, leaving McCree alone with a dead-to-the-world Hanzo who has started to snore gently.

True to McCree’s prediction, Hanzo does wake up half an hour later, bleary-eyed and grumbling in incomprehensible Japanese. He only seems to realize McCree is there when he tries to push himself to his feet and grabs a handful of McCree’s serape instead of the back of the couch. His head snaps up, eyes wide as they meet McCree’s.

“Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” McCree says mildly.

Hanzo’s face does something strange, caught between an annoyed scowl and an embarrassed grimace. “Apologies,” he mutters.

“No worries. Might wanna get yourself to bed, though, before you pass out again. Also, fair warning, your brother came by, so . . .”

Hanzo mutters what McCree can only imagine is a series of colorful Japanese swears as he ambles out of the rec room. McCree chuckles to himself as he massages the tingling numbness out of his arm.

 

**III.**

 

Some of the younger members of the team have been taking it upon themselves recently to arrange movie nights--of all things for a special-ops team to spend its downtime doing--and McCree’s attendance is often spotty at these things. Tonight, though, he feels up to the socialization, and he makes his way down to the rec room fashionably late at fifteen minutes into the movie.

“Hey hey, welcome to the party!” Lúcio says enthusiastically, pushing a beer into McCree’s hand just after he steps through the door. McCree grins and tips his hat in greeting before going to find himself a place to sit amongst the team, which seems to consist of everyone except Torbjorn and Brigitte, whom McCree suspects have boarded themselves up in the workshops for another project. The long couch is already full, so McCree takes a seat on the floor and leans back against it instead. He loses himself quickly to the film and the team’s running commentary, relaxed and content in a way he doesn’t often know nowadays.

Sometimes he forgets what it’s like having a team around him.

After half an hour or so, he hears Hana above him call, “Hey, Hanzo! Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”

McCree looks up. The sight that greets him makes his mouth run dry, despite the beer he’s been drinking.

Hanzo got a haircut.

Not just a haircut, McCree realizes. New silver hoops hang from his ears, and a barbell sits regally above the arch of his nose, subtle as far as piercings go but utterly unmistakeable on Hanzo. He looks sleek and modern and dangerous, a far cry from the bastion of tradition McCree is accustomed to seeing.

He looks _good._

Hanzo laughs good-naturedly at Hana. “I thought I might,” he replies. He looks around the room, deliberating on where to sit, before his gaze lands on McCree and the empty space on the floor. McCree tries to not look like he was staring and fixes his expression into one of casual interest as he gestures for Hanzo to join him.

It’s a fight not to stare as Hanzo comes over to sit beside him, easily folding into a cross-legged position on the floor. McCree reaches over into the cooler on his side, fetching a beer for Hanzo to avoid staring at him instead. “That’s a hell of a new look there, partner,” he says to the cooler. “Where’d that come from?”

The chuckle he hears is tinged with self-consciousness, and when McCree turns back to Hanzo, Hanzo is fidgeting with one of the earrings in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “It is a change,” he agrees. “But . . . I have thought of doing this for some time.”

“That so.”

Hanzo takes the offered beer gratefully. He drinks deeply, and McCree’s gaze is briefly drawn down to the bob of his throat. “Truthfully,” Hanzo says, “I had wanted to do something like this when I was young, but such a look would not have befitted a master of the clan. And I’m sure you can imagine that it was not a priority in the last ten years or so.”

“Why now?”

Hanzo shrugs, but McCree can see the forced casualness to it. “I suppose I finally realized that I was permitted to have it,” he says, and McCree’s chest feels tight.

The conversation moves on to lighter topics as they are both quickly drawn back into the movie and the commentary around them, but McCree still can’t help stealing glances at Hanzo whenever chance allows for it. He has no idea what has him so captivated now--sure, he’s always thought Hanzo was handsome enough, and this was somehow a change for the better, but nonetheless, there’s no reason he should be so obsessed, or feel such a strange fluttering in his gut.

He has a couple more beers. Hanzo does too. The movie ends and another’s put on. Hana groans loudly about the ineffectual female characters and contrasts them against the character she played in her most recent film, who actually _did something_ . Reinhardt claims he could have taken down the tank posing problems for the protagonist within two minutes. Angela comments on the inaccuracy of the bloody injuries someone incurs in the first fifteen minutes and reminds everyone that it is _very_ easy to bleed out from an injury to the inner thigh if they nick the femoral artery. Hanzo remarks that he almost did, once, and offers a smile but no further explanation when three different people, including McCree, look directly at him.

McCree’s less surprised than he should be when he feels a warm weight tip against his shoulder, and a glance downward confirms that yep, Hanzo fell asleep again, and he’s making liberal use of McCree’s shoulder as a pillow yet again.

Three times is definitely a pattern, now.

McCree doesn’t say anything, figuring he’ll give Hanzo until the end of the second film to wake up on his own, but it doesn’t take half that long for someone else to notice.

“Is Hanzo asleep?” asks Lúcio, leaning over from his perch on the far end of the couch. Immediately, everyone’s heads turn in McCree’s and Hanzo’s direction, and even though McCree isn’t the one who’s passed out, he feels his face warm with embarrassment.

“Yeah, uh, think he conked out,” he says, as though he is only just realizing instead of realizing fifteen minutes ago. “Sounds like he had a long day.”

“You must be a cozy pillow,” Lena says. “Me next? I could use a kip.”

“ _No._ ”

“Should we wake him up?” Lúcio asks, leaning over to peer at the two until he teeters precariously on the edge of the couch. “Dude always looks like he needs the sleep, but uh, maybe not there.”

McCree waves them off with his free hand. “Let him be. It’s not like I got anywhere to be. Besides, this ain’t the first time.”

That turns out to be the wrong thing to say, because the group immediately erupts into delighted laughter and teasing. McCree can feel the flush creep up his cheeks and the back of his neck, but he resolutely keeps his attention on the screen and lets them have their fun.

The others’ teasing dies down as they return their attention to the movie, and once it seems safe, McCree finds his eyes drawn straight back to Hanzo. He is surprised that the bout of teasing, particularly with Reinhardt’s booming laughter and shouted suggestive commentary, did not wake Hanzo; the man sleeps on, unperturbed.

He can’t shake his strange fascination with Hanzo’s new appearance. The sleek topknot means McCree isn't getting a mouthful of hair. The shaved sides look invitingly soft, and he can't help but wonder how it would feel under his fingers--or his lips.

McCree’s breath catches as he realizes just exactly what thought went through his head. He sits back as much as his current predicament will allow, looks down at Hanzo, and reconsiders every thought he’s had about this man in the last few months.

When he reaches the end, he concludes that he’s almost certainly in trouble.

But for now, McCree shifts, leans back against the couch, lets his arm curl around Hanzo _just_ enough that he can rest his fingertips on Hanzo’s hip, and helps himself to another beer. Might as well enjoy it while he can.

Thankfully, no one notices.

 

**IV.**

 

McCree is absolutely not thinking about how best to position himself in case Hanzo falls asleep again.

He definitely does not carefully arrange himself in the corner of the couch, or make sure his legs are comfortably crossed so that they won’t fall asleep, or stretch his arm across the back of the couch so that it won’t get pinned. He’s just making himself cozy and trying to be practical about it so he isn’t constantly moving around in pain later on.

Hanzo appears in the doorway while McCree’s convincing himself he’s not being weird, carrying two small ceramic cups in one hand and a fine bottle of _sake_ \--his winnings from their silly shooting competition earlier that day--in the other. Hanzo hadn’t asked for such a nice bottle, but the delighted look on his face when McCree had presented it to him had made it worth every credit.

“Now, you don’t gotta share your prize with me,” McCree says.

Hanzo chuckles. “Perhaps not,” he says, taking a seat beside McCree to open the _sake_. “But for some reason, I find myself feeling charitable.”

“That so.”

“Mm. You should consider yourself lucky.” Hanzo leans over to pour each of their drinks, sets aside the bottle, and sits back to hand McCree his glass. Their fingertips brush as he does, startlingly warm compared to the cool ceramic of the _sake_ cup. “And I feel it is only appropriate to share, considering the amount you must have spent on it.”

“That ain’t how gifts work.”

Hanzo’s laugh is soft, something that could almost be called fond. “Fine then,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Then consider it a gesture of friendship, or whatever pleases you.”

McCree sips his drink, hides his pleased smile behind the little cup, and ignores the flutters in his stomach.

They talk for awhile longer, of the day’s events and related anecdotes and of old stories. Conversation is easy between them now, even when they lapse into silence until they can think of something else to say. It’s so different from what it was when Hanzo first arrived, when he was vicious and surly and self-isolating to the point that McCree sometimes wondered if he’d disappeared off the base entirely.

Now Hanzo can be found all over the base, and sometimes seeks out others (and McCree hasn’t failed to notice that it’s very often him that Hanzo seeks). He converses and laughs and exhibits a certain level of dry, even dark humor. He’s made strides to improve himself, slowly shedding the restraints of his past and not only allowing himself the things he wants, but working to improve the world around him in ways he was too stubborn to see before.

Now he falls asleep on McCree as though it’s the easiest thing to do.

McCree isn’t surprised when the lapse in conversation becomes permanent, when Hanzo’s head lolls against his arm where it’s stretched across the back of the couch. And McCree’s comfortable enough this time--absolutely _not_ because he prepared himself for it--that he isn’t in urgent need of moving Hanzo away.

He shifts a little, leaning deeper into the crook of the couch. As if by instinct, Hanzo turns into him, nestling into the crook of McCree’s arm and tipping his head against McCree’s chest. It may very well be the sweetest thing McCree’s ever witnessed, and it takes a moment for him to unstick his breath in his throat.

His resolve--what little there was--shot, McCree digs his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants and settles in for a late night.

He is interrupted some twenty minutes later, just as he is in the thick of an article about recent tensions surrounding Vishkar’s movements in South America, by the loud snap of gum being popped.

“You need some help?” Hana asks mildly from the doorway. She has her phone in her hand, and her attention is already back on it when McCree looks up.

“Nope. Think we’re good.”

“You sure?” A brief glance upward. Another snap of the gum. A hint of an amused smile at the corner of her mouth. “I can wake him up in like, two seconds, and I could film it to play for my next stream.”

“If you even think about wakin’ him up, I will end you were you stand, missy.”

“Alright, alright.” She shrugs, the movement half-hidden under the folds of her oversized, eye-wateringly pink hoodie. “Have it your way. Guess it’s kinda cute.”

Hana doesn’t leave. McCree scrolls further down the article. “Hana,” he says blandly, “if you start takin’ pictures, I’m gonna have to get up and snap that phone of yours in two, and that’ll wake up Hanzo, and then you’ll be in even deeper shit, so I recommend puttin’ that away and not gettin’ started on that particular train.”

“I mean,” Hana says, sounding one hundred percent _un_ threatened, “You can do that if you want, but they’re already on the cloud, so . . .”

McCree suppresses a groan. Hanzo makes a tiny noise in response, unconsciously nuzzling his face against McCree’s shirt. Hana’s giggles echo down the hall.

 

**V.**

 

McCree knows he has a problem.

If he were a better person, he wouldn’t keep letting this happen.

But it’s another late night between them, this time with McCree seeking out Hanzo at some point past one in the morning, his head so full of thoughts and his body so restless that the mere sight of Hanzo had been a blessed relief. Cups of tea turned into cups of whiskey-laced coffee, conversations about tonight’s difficult thoughts to a comfortable silence, and McCree had known that they would end up here again but couldn’t bring himself to do anything to avoid it.

“You’ve ruined me, you know that?” he murmurs to Hanzo’s sleeping form. He rests his head against Hanzo’s, not even bothering to pretend that he’s tired enough to justify it. His eyes slide shut as he lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that this is something he is allowed to have. “Can’t keep doin’ this to me. Gives a man ideas.”

Hanzo must have showered not long before he came down here; his hair smells pleasantly of something bright and appley. It would be wildly inappropriate to kiss the top of Hanzo’s head so McCree resists the urge, but only just.

He takes and lets out a deep breath, trying and failing to ease the tightness in his chest. He should have seen this coming--that silly little crush he noticed a couple months ago developing into something more problematic. He had thought it might pass in its own time and he’d be in the clear, but it occurs to him now that he never had a chance of that.

Hanzo likes to think himself an island in the sea: isolated, difficult to reach, uninviting. Perhaps that is the case, at times, but islands still have their own tides around them, their own currents dragging hapless things to their shores. And even a desert island is an oasis to a shipwrecked man drifting through an endless, uncaring sea.

Either way, McCree had never had a chance.

The faint glow of acid-green LEDs creeping across the floor alerts him to Genji’s presence before he sees the man himself. McCree immediately bolts upright, an excuse on the tip of his tongue for why he was caught cuddling up on Hanzo, but Genji holds up a hand before McCree can speak.

It’s a long moment before Genji says anything. A sickening feeling of shame crawls up McCree’s throat with each second that passes. Genji sighs softly, the sound staticky at its edges, and says, “The two of you really need to talk sometime. Preferably sober, since my brother has apparently lost the ability to drink and stay awake in his old age.”

McCree snorts. He relaxes a little, but doesn’t let himself slouch back down again. His arm stays draped around Hanzo. “Yeah, right,” he says. “That’ll go well. ‘Hey, Hanzo, any reason you keep passin’ out on me? Should we just stop drinkin’ entirely?’ Sounds like a good way to get an arrow in my ass.”

Genji stares at him for a long moment, arms loosely crossed over his chest. McCree’s known the man long enough to know his body language, faceplate or none, and now he knows he’s being assessed.

Genji tilts his head a fraction, his face turning down toward Hanzo’s sleeping form. “My brother does not trust easily,” he says.

McCree blinks. “No shit,” he says dryly. “Wouldn’t’ve guessed after the last few months.”

“He has always been this way,” Genji continues, ignoring McCree’s sarcasm. “Even when we were young. Part of it was simply our upbringing, but even then, Hanzo was always careful in his trust. It has only gotten worse in the last years.”

McCree shifts a little, careful as he can, feeling his arm start to go numb under Hanzo’s muscular weight. Hanzo makes a tiny protesting noise, but reamins steadfastly asleep. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll bite: I’m not sure what you’re gettin’ at there, Genji.”

“I only mean,” Genji says, “that perhaps you should consider what it means that he trusts you enough to do this.”

McCree opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes forth. Shame and confusion form a tight knot in under his ribs. He doesn’t dare let _hope_ enter the mix.

Genji shakes his head as though disappointed and crosses the room, stopping in front of the couch. He shakes Hanzo by the shoulder, saying something in Japanese. Hanzo glares at him and doesn’t move, nudging his head further into McCree’s chest. Genji says something else, and McCree hears his name, and that is when he feels Hanzo abruptly tense in his arms.

Hanzo shoots upright, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the couch and the other on MccCree’s thigh. He blinks several times in rapid succession as he reorients himself, then looks at McCree with an expression that is nothing short of alarm.

“Howdy,” McCree says.

Hanzo sits back, kneeling on the couch cushion. “I--” he starts, then stops. His cheeks flush pink. “My apologies.”

“You are making quite the habit of this,” Genji remarks. Hanzo shoots him a filthy glare.

“Don’t worry about it,” McCree says.

His bed is freezing, when he finally gets to it. He sleeps like shit. Hanzo won’t look him in the eye the next morning.

 

**VI.**

 

A mission has them up for nearly 40 straight hours. Almost nothing of note happens during the trip, but it requires so much moving about and so much vigilance that there isn’t time to catch even a little cat nap. By the time the shuttle arrives, McCree’s dead on his feet, thinking about where Winston can shove his apology about the whole thing. Hanzo’s faring no better, slouched under the weight of his gear, eyes half-lidded as he waits for the ramp to drop.

“Have fun, lads?” Lena chirps as she stands at the top of the ramp, hands held out in a playful after-you gesture. She giggles at their twin grumbling. “Alright, maybe not. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back on base in a tick.”

McCree collapses onto the bench against the wall. McCree hears Hanzo take a seat beside him, but is out like a light within a minute of takeoff, dragged into unconsciousness by the weight of his exhaustion.

He wakes about an hour later, jolted by a particularly strong bit of turbulence and Lena’s “Sorry ‘bout that, luvs!” over the intercom. He groans, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Beside him, Hanzo sits, perfectly upright, his gaze on the far wall of the shuttle. He doesn’t look like he’s even considered sleeping, and McCree feels a pang of misplaced disappointment realizing that he missed a chance to have Hanzo cuddled up to him. Not that he should be actively wishing for something like that, considering the circumstances, but it’s hard to not think of it as taking what he can get.

“Y’sleep at all?” he asks. Hanzo blinks a few times, as though startled, and looks at McCree with something that seems almost like guilt.

“Ah--no,” he says haltingly. “I did not.”

"You should. Benches ain’t the most comfy of things, but we were up for a good while."

Hanzo gives a rueful smile. It is a long moment before he says, “Perhaps, but it would seem I cannot be trusted to sleep around you.”

McCree hesitates. “Not sure what you mean,” he says, though they both know exactly what Hanzo is referring to. They haven’t acknowledged it outside of it happening before, however, and with that mutual ignorance now broken, McCree’s unsure what will happen next.  

Hanzo gives a shake of his head, as though disbelieving, though it’s unclear whether that disbelief is in McCree or himself. “You would think,” he says, “that a grown man would be more capable of--” He hesitates, looking faintly embarrassed, as McCree imagines he is trying to find words besides _not falling asleep on his coworker._  “In any case, I realize I must apologize for making such a habit of it.”

“I really don’t mind.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re not even the first one to do it to me. Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you get your sleep and all, and it’s not like you’re doin’ it on purpose.”

Hanzo worries the inside of his lip. He takes too long to answer. “Unless you are,” McCree says.

“Of course not,” Hanzo snaps. He grimaces immediately, guilty. McCree decides to let it be; there’s something more important here.

“Alright,” he says. “Just--don’t worry about it. It’s fine. But what were you doin’ instead of sleepin’, then? Ain’t good to deprive yourself like that.”

“I was thinking."

“About?”

Another long pause. Hanzo’s fists clench in his lap with a white-knuckled grip on the fabric of his pants. McCree waits, his heart beating a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

“I was thinking,” Hanzo says softly, after a long, painful silence, “of something I have meant to say for some time.”

McCree can’t decide if his heart stops or leaps into his throat at that. Maybe both. “That so,” he manages around the lump--heart or otherwise--in his throat.

“Mc--Jesse.”

McCree pauses. He ignores the way his stomach jolts a little at the sound of his first name on Hanzo’s lips and plasters on a lazy grin to hide it. “McJesse?” he repeats. “Now I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, but I think that’s a new one.”

Hanzo’s huff almost sounds like a laugh. “Jesse,” he says, more certain, and this time McCree can’t ignore the fluttering in his belly. “What I mean to say is that . . .”

He trails off, and McCree decides he needs to intervene, throw Hanzo a lifeline before he crumples. He’s pretty certain, now, what Hanzo means to say.

There’s a chance he’s wrong. But he thinks he isn’t.

“Hey,” McCree says, reaching over to where Hanzo’s hands are fisted in his lap. He rests his own hand atop them, a response and an invitation both. Hanzo’s head jerks up, and McCree finds his own resolve hardened by the cautious hope in Hanzo’s eyes. “If you’re tryin’ to say what I think you are . . . it’s fine. It’s all fine. Promise.”

Hanzo watches him for a long moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind, or trying to catch him in a lie. McCree simply waits, too, breath stuck behind that heart-lump in his throat, each second that ticks by taking another year off his life.  

Then Hanzo leans up and kisses him.

It’s somehow stiff and hesitant and slow and sweet all in the mere moment it lasts, and when Hanzo sits back to gauge McCree’s reaction, McCree doesn’t let him move more than a couple of inches. Fumbling to recover from his shock, McCree gets a hand around the back of Hanzo’s neck and pulls them back together, and Hanzo just about melts. His hand slides slowly up McCree’s chest, then his neck, finally coming to a rest on the side of his face, and McCree slips an arm around Hanzo’s middle. The cushioned bench really isn’t conducive to this, but McCree still spreads his hand wide over Hanzo’s back and pulls him in close, an act that feels like utter indulgence after the months he’s spent denied it, and Hanzo pushes in until there is no space between them to be found.

Hanzo’s mouth slides away from McCree’s, far too soon for McCree's liking. He presses his cheek to McCree’s, eyes closed, and McCree recognizes the sleepiness in the gesture.

“You oughta get some sleep,” he says, petting his hand down Hanzo’s back. “We had a long mission, and it didn’t help none torturin’ yourself about stuff instead of resting.”

“I am exhausted,” Hanzo agrees, “but . . .” His hand slides down McCree’s neck, fingers catching and gripping McCree’s serape. “I do not want to stop this.”

And lord, doesn’t that make McCree feel special, hearing Hanzo say he’d forego sleep just to keep kissing. He grins over Hanzo’s shoulder, cheeks hurting as he considers whether he can get away with just kissing Hanzo until the shuttle lands. But the day’s exhaustion is creeping up on him again, and he knows that Hanzo’s well on his way to falling asleep upright.

It occurs to him, however, that there’s now a solution for that. “C’mere,” he says, “I have an idea.”

He grabs Hanzo’s hand and scoots back until his shoulders hit the arm of the bench, then tugs on Hanzo’s hand to get him to follow. Hanzo quickly realizes and kneels over McCree, then carefully stretches out along the bench alongside him. It’s a tight fit, and Hanzo seems hesitant to actually get close until McCree wraps an arm around his back and pulls Hanzo’s weight over his own body. Hanzo is a line of tension from shoulder to toe, but as McCree runs his hand down Hanzo’s back, he slowly starts to relax.

“This alright?” McCree asks, just to be sure, though the way Hanzo’s draped his arm over his chest suggests anything but distaste.

Hanzo lets out a sigh of contentment, warm against McCree’s collarbone. “More than,” he replies. The last of his hesitance finally seems to fade, and the remaining tension drains from his body as he tucks his head under McCree’s chin as though on instinct.  McCree stares at the ceiling of the shuttle and thanks a god he hasn’t believed in for twenty years.

He drifts off with Hanzo heavy and comfortable on his chest and a stupid smile on his face.

They wake up together a couple of hours later to Lena’s exasperated voice on the overhead, yelling at them to _put on their damn seatbelts so she can land this thing, luvs, or so help her._ McCree’s neck is killing him from the angle he fell asleep at, but when Hanzo lifts his head to look at him, hair just a little mussed, cheek creased by a fold in McCree’s shirt, and face soft with sleep, McCree forgets about the neck entirely.

He’ll take that any day if it means waking with Hanzo beside him.

 


End file.
